


Pretty Young Things

by tactfulGnostalgic (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Heathers AU, Humanstuck, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9491603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic
Summary: High school is supposed to be simple, you think, but people are supposed to be nice, and friends are supposed to like you, and life is supposed to be happy, but sometimes shit isn't the way it's supposed to be. That's growing up, you think.





	

It's less of a miracle and more of a coincidence, although the overlap between the two is arguably significant. Serendipity, happenstance, and Meenah forgetting to eat lunch. A circumstantial simultaneity, passing the convenience store just when she remembered it's a bit of a bad idea to drink on an empty stomach. She didn't even mean to get anything, but Damara had wanted a fresh pack of cigs and two votes made a majority. And if it hadn't been for your lack of any spinal cord whatsoever, you wouldn't even be the one going in, but would've sat in the back of the car while Damara got her own damn cigarettes. And you wouldn't be in the car in the first place if you didn't have good judgment and terrible friends. All said and done, you end up at a 7-11 at nine o'clock on the way to your friend's ex-boyfriend's college party as the result of a fortuitous series of accidents, none of which have anything in the least to do with fate.

The four of you should, by all accounts, fit comfortably in the car, but Porrim - with whom you share the backseat - seems determined to absorb as much space as possible. Her legs sprawl across the seats and bump against yours when the car takes a turn; her arms, draped in shimmering green chiffon, are flung behind the headrest and along the door's armrest. Damara sits up front, her legs crossed neatly and one long scarlet nail drumming mindlessly on the divider. She redoes her bun with precise, mechanical tugs, and slides a chopstick through to fasten the whole thing. Meenah has her foot glued to the accelerator and one hand on the wheel, the other dangling out the window and swaying to the music. It's bad music, in your opinion, made worse by the bass, which is cranked up so high that you can barely make out the melody over the clattering of your teeth as the car vibrates. From behind, you can see the layers of jewelry she's piled on tonight; she's got someone she wants to impress. She never wears more than four gold chains unless she's got someone she wants to impress. 

So the four of you ride, after dark, into the dimming evening. Your own dress, sleeveless at Porrim's behest, clings to you in the chilly interior. You're aware that they're more comfortable than you with the arrangement. Meenah seems utterly at home in the evening air, and Damara, you think, has never looked out-of-place anywhere; Porrim treats the backseat like a personal suite. It's only you, wedged into the corner, that is agitated by the whole affair. To be fair, you've never gone to a college party before, and you're not in good company. You never seem to be in good company.

"Terezi," Meenah announces, taking a sharp left turn through a red light. "Get me something."

"What do you want?"

She hauls the car into the parking lot of a 7-11.  "I don't know. Something that'll get me drunk slower. Be quick about it."

Damara flicks her fingers in your direction, mimes blowing smoke.

"And a pack of cigs for Dam," she adds, begrudgingly. "Porrim, you want anything?"

"I'm doing just fine on nothing at all."

"Not for long. Anyway, hup to." She shooes you out.

"Sure, Meenah." You hop out amiably. You pick your battles carefully. In that vein of thought, you never pick battles with Meenah.

She parks and leaves the car running. You like that car more than you've ever liked her. It's a black sports car, the hood curving up into the windshield with fluid lines, windows tinted to opacity. She got it for her sixteenth and never uses it except to drive to parties, which tells you several things about her, none of which are flattering. Meenah's the kind of person who'd sell each and every one of her friends without flinching, if she thought she could get a good deal for them.

The inside of the 7-11 sparkles like a clean operating table. A faint smell of disinfectant wafts through the air vent just over the door; people wander aimlessly through the aisles like they've long since forgotten what they came for, entranced by the liminal quality of the space. 7-11's are some of the most surreal places you've ever seen. Everything seems like if you reached out and touched it your hand would slide right through, or you could turn around and the door wouldn't be there, and it wouldn't surprise you in the least. You suspect it has something to do with the lights. Nothing looks real under fluorescent light.

You wander a little bit yourself. Look over the snack rows, grab a pack of Camels from one of the back shelves, drift to the food counter and contemplate getting yourself something. Ultimately, buy a bag of Twizzlers for yourself and some anchovies for Meenah; wander a little bit more, munching on a Twizzler with satisfied lethargy. If they're going to make you do their menial work, you reserve the right to take your sweet time.

You're nibbling absently on a piece of red licorice when someone's voice floats out of the normal chatter: a low one, rising with irritation. 

"Fuck me," it says, peevish, "d'you mind?"

"Sorry -" Someone else; terrified, probably, and attempting to wheedle themself out of a confrontation. 

You glance over your shoulder. A girl's perched on the counter next to the slushy machine, legs crossed, a straw dangling between her lips and a scowl knit into the sharp lines of her face. She's wearing a leather jacket far too long for her, a pair of cherry sneakers that fray and rip at the seams, and a baggy t-shirt too faded to read. Her hair sprouts over her shoulders and tangles down to her waist, huge and messy, collecting dust and static and crumbs. There's a strip shaved along the side of her head, a clean line of grey against the rising mass of black coils. 

The guy in front of her backs off fast, apologizing as he goes, and you are drawn to her.

"What'd he do?"

She looks at you from the corner of her eyes, which are an oddly dark shade of blue. "Knocked into me," she says, and then louder, so he's sure to hear, "Asshole."

"Just that?"

She shrugs. "You can never be too careful, right?"

"Sure." You avert your eyes and stick another Twizzler in your mouth to avoid saying something awkward. Her feet thump softly against the counter and she sips the slushy, the rattling heave of straw against empty cup grating against your ears.

"Come here often?" She lifts an eyebrow, and you lean against the wall beside her. You debate whether or not she's flirting and decide that she probably is. 

"Not really. My friends are outside."

"No rush to get back, I guess."

"They're assholes," you say simply, and stick more candy in your mouth.

She snorts. "Why are you friends with assholes?" She fidgets with the straw of her slushy. It scrapes at the bottom of the cup and she watches it twirl, declining to look at you.

"I'm a masochist who likes a project."

"Really."

"They're popular," you say. "And they like me. Opportunity. Et cetera."

"You're sitting in a 7-11 on a Sunday night for a bunch of people you don't even like." She rolls her eyes. "You know, I don't judge, but that's an ass opportunity."

"You're sitting in a 7-11 on a Sunday night waiting for no one, but I don't judge, either."

You wait for her to kick you or something, but she snickers and punches your shoulder lightly. "Fuck off."

"What about you?" You wait for her to lapse back into silence before asking. "Don't you have anywhere better to be, nine on a Sunday?"

"Nope," she says, and drains the rest of her slushy. She reaches over to the machine and refills it, leaning over your body to do so. Her hair falls in your face and it smells of orange soap. You hold back a sneeze.

She offers you the cup, straw stained with indigo lipstick. "Can I tempt you?"

You shrug, lean over and drink. The ice and the sugar run down your throat like a live wire to your stomach, and a shiver crawls up your back.

"When you say -"

"I'm here every Sunday. Who needs hot dates when you've got a haunt like this?" Her smirk is self-deprecating and charming; it bears her incisors, sharp, to the light.

"Why?"

A brusque roll of the shoulders, tossing off some imaginary hold. "Been around the country," she says brightly. "Dallas, Baton Rouge, Vegas, everywhere between Seattle and St. Louis. 7-11's in every one of them! Really gives you a sense of home."

"You feel at home here?"

"Oh, for sure. You know a 7-11 slushy tastes the same, anywhere? Anywhere you get it. Hits you like a punch to the face. Better than cocaine."

"Doubt it." You take another drink from her cup, tugging it out of her hands. She lets you take it without resistance.

"What, do you do it?"

"All the time. Yesterday I did three lines off my friend's left ass cheek."

"Oh, cool. Figured your drug of choice was nicotine, not coke, but shows what I know, right?" She kicks the bag dangling at your side. "Unless you do both."

"These are my friend's."

"Sure they are."

"If I'm doing three lines a day, a cig's not going to do anything for me."

"Good. That shit tastes terrible."

"It's no cherry slushy," you agree, and she smirks again. You feel kind of victorious, when she grins.

"Now you're getting it."

She hops off the table and you realize she's not as tall as you thought she was; standing up straight, she's barely got two inches on you, and you're pretty short. "Your friends are still waiting, right?"

"They can wait a little longer. Made me pay for their shit, I can hang around as long as you like."

"Cool. Pop outside with me, I've been sitting under this heater for an hour and I'm dying."

"Sure." You let her hook an arm around your shoulder and guide you to the doors, the warmth of her body seeping through your clothes. It's a well-worn jacket, smelling of ancient leather and her perfume, and since you made the mistake of wearing a sleeveless dress you're grateful for every ounce of warmth you can get. It's not uncomfortable, either.

* * *

 

You don't like your friends. It seems like a weird thing to say, but it's true. When you were younger, you'd hated people like them. Meenah's mother is one of the richest people in the state; Damara comes from a family of actresses, and Porrim is a model. They're the most popular people at your school by an incredible margin, but nobody actually likes them; they've got a cruel streak a mile wide and you doubt they seriously care about each other, much less you. Their group coagulated from the mutual desire to have powerful connections, nothing more. You don't know why they like you. That's a lie. You know exactly why they like you. You're a great forger. Permission slips, hall passes, absence excuses. You've given them free tickets out of most school obligations. You're a good friend to have.

 

You should've ditched them a long time ago. You're probably a worse person when you're around them, and you used to have friends of your own, before you were entangled with Meenah's crew. But you're a coward.

They'll be angry at you for staying so long. You're sure of it. But it's been a while since anybody's talked to you without knowing who your friends are, and there's something entrancing about her angry, mocking smile. She acts like she doesn't care what anyone else is thinking. You've never met anyone who acts like that.

* * *

 

Meenah's car is lurking in the corner of the parking lot, and you can almost feel her sneering at you from behind the tinted glass. She honks once, sharply, which you choose to ignore in favor of watching Vriska drape herself over a huge black motorbike parked up on the curb. You have a thing for motorcycles. Hers is gorgeous.

"That's _yours_?" You restrain yourself from touching it.  

"A reward for good behavior," she says, rolling the words off her tongue scornfully.

"Extortion," you note. You'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed.

"Perks of having a granddad in the construction business. And it's not like I wanted a car."

"Construction business?" You plop down on the seat, tracing a finger along the handlebar.

"Serket Construction, Incorporated."

"Your mom's that lady on the billboards?" They've got signs all over town, a minimalist cobalt logo on black; a death warrant for the property they occupy. All you know about the company is that when a few kids tried to sneak onto a demolition site, they sued for trespassing and refused to settle out-of-court; you'd figured that the CEO was a sadist or something. You didn't know she had a daughter. Or that her daughter frequented 7-11's and owned a motorbike.

"Vriska Serket, at your service," she drawls, and sticks out her right hand.

You try to ascertain whether it's an ironic gesture, and then, deciding that it's probably in earnest, take it. Her skin is hot and dry. "Terezi Pyrope. Pretty name, Vriska."

"Thanks. I mean, you, too, or whatever." She tips back the last of the ice without chewing it, grimacing. "A genuine pleasure."

Meenah pounds the horn three times, like she's trying to wake the dead. Your ears ring. "Fucking hell," Vriska complains, glaring at the car. "What's their damage?"

"My friends."

She whistles, low and impressed. "You roll with rich-ass people, Terezi Pyrope."

"One rich-ass person and two moochers, but one for three isn't bad."

"Three moochers," she says, poking your shoulder.

"The only kind of money I'm interested in is social credit."

"How very lucky. Where are you going, anyway?"

"Party at Remington's." 

"Remington's? How old are you, anyway?" She squints at you.

"Seventeen - I'm not a student."

"Gatecrashing a frat party. How very." She wiggles her eyebrows. "Where do you go, then? If not college."

"Westerburg."

"Same," she says, mildly surprised. "Senior?"

"Course."

"Weird that we haven't met. Well, whatever. Better late than never."

Meenah lays the horn on thick and you entertain, briefly, the fantasy of running over and smashing the engine to pieces. But you'd miss the car. "She's going to shatter my eardrum," you decide, lifting your middle finger in her general direction.

"Let her piss off, then," Vriska says. "Hang around."

"What? With you? At a 7-11 on a Sunday night?" You want to. You're inordinately excited to spend hours chatting with a weird leather-clad girl in a convenience store, and it's a wonderfully irritating feeling. 

"It's not such a bad gig," she says, pouting. "Plenty to do." She gestures to herself, to the motorcycle, to the glass doors of the store as they slide open for a leaving customer. You snicker.

"Exciting!"

"It  _is_. You're so judgy."

"Occupational hazard," you say, jerking your chin at the car.

"All the more reason to ditch the bitch!" She fixes you with a broad, toothy grin, and plays with her straw with her tongue.

"Tempting. I've gotta go, though. Kind of made a commitment."

She rolls her eyes. "Didn't peg you for a square, Pyrope."

"I'm going to a party."

"Squaaaaaaaare!"

"Shut the hell up," you snort, punching her shoulder. You finish your last Twizzler and throw the package away; when you turn back to the bike, she's watching you closely. "I'd actually like to stay, but Meenah would absolutely skewer me."

"I'd protect you."

"My knight in shining armor," you coo, and bat your eyelashes, to the best of your ability. You really aren't an eyelash-batter habitually, so it's probably a mangled effort. She seems to appreciate it anyway.

"Alright, then," she sighs. "Dash."

You hesitate. "You - you have a number?"

She doesn't look at you. "Yeah, I got one."

"You wanna give it to me, or just mope after I'm gone?"

"Like I'd mope for you," she says, sticking out her tongue, but fishes a receipt out of her pocket. "You got a pen?"

You dig around in the bottom of your purse and produce a stick of blue chalk, which she accepts with disgruntlement. "It's a long story," you offer by way of explanation.

"I'm sure." She finishes scrawling her digits on the receipt and then stuffs it into your purse hastily, before you can get a good look at it. "Call me after the party, or whatever. Square."

"Sure," you agree.

"I think your friend's gonna run me over if you don't go soon," she notes. Meenah's lights are on and the engine is humming. You doubt she'd leave without you though. She needs you to return the money she gave you for food.

"Maybe. She can wait for a couple of seconds."

Vriska looks back at you, slurps the dregs of syrup from the bottom of her cup thoughtfully. Her lips are flushed bright from the ice. She's only half-cast in the light, half of the motorcycle parked beyond the reach of the drugstore fluorescents. "What're you gonna do with a couple of seconds?"

You lean forward and plant a kiss on her lips, managing to get one stabilizing hand on the handlebars before her hands fly up behind your neck and haul you in. She tugs until you're standing in between her open legs and craning your neck to get a decent angle, her face upturned to fit against yours and her nose rubbing softly against your cheeks. Her finger traces promisingly along the line of your collarbone and it feels kind of weird, the pressure and the hot movement of her tongue on the seal of your lips and the gentle tug of her ankle locked around your knee, but it all balances so well that it takes you a full thirty seconds to remember where you are and what you're doing, which is what you shouldn't be.

She mutters a gentle "fuck's sake" when you pull away, and it's very gratifying. You just made out with a stranger in front of a 7-11 at nine-thirty on a Sunday night and it felt fantastic.

"Right," you say. "I'll text you."

"You better."

"I don't break promises," you say lightly, and then, tapping her on the nose, drift away to Meenah's car. You can almost feel her glaring at your back, and that, too, is very gratifying.

You slide into the backseat and Meenah's on you in an instant, furious.

"You took a fucking hour, like, what the fucking actual hell, Terezi."

You toss her the bag. "Got your anchovies!" You chirp it brightly and hope she won't say anything about Vriska.

"Salted?"

"Of course."

She roots through and pulls out Damara's smokes, tossing them to her. Porrim, who's got her legs sprawled over the backseat and around whom you have to navigate to sit down properly, laughs, "You're such an asshole, TZ."

"Whatever. Good parties don't start until late," says Damara, and it shuts her up.

"Drive," you urge Meenah. Vriska hasn't moved from the bike, and watches the car with blank, calculating eyes. Her voice rings again, clearly, in your ears:  _Hang around._

"Fine," Meenah snaps, and peels out of the parking lot. She drives past Vriska, almost close enough to clip off a mirror on the bike, and Vriska lifts a hand to flutter her fingers - wryly - at you in the rearview. You think of waving goodbye, too, but everyone in the car would notice. You decide against it. 

* * *

 

Your fingers clench and unclench rhythmically around the phone number in your purse. Remington surfaces on the horizon, a collection of blackened brick buildings and yellow streetlights between which people stumble and laugh and scream. You suppose that there's always a party going on, even if it's a Sunday. You suppose that there's always somebody trying to get drunk and laid, even if they've got class in the morning.

"I'm going here next year," Porrim remarks, tapping on the glass. "Early acceptance. You know?"

"Congrats," you say, at the same time as Meenah laughs, "You applied here?"

"Of course. It's a good college."

"If you're into that shit." She shrugs. Damara, as usual, remains silent.

"Aren't you?"

 

" _Fuck_  nah."

"You're not going to college."

"There ain't anything a school can teach me that I can't learn myself, better, somewhere else."

Damara flicks her on the ear. "You're an idiot."

" _You're_ an idiot. Fuck off."

You applied to six schools for early acceptance and haven't gotten letters from any of them, which isn't to say that they've refused you, but it's sent your anxiety to the moon since application day. You can't wait to leave. Ohio is a fine place, you guess, but not for people like you. You can't spend the rest of your life in a town where everyone knows you. You can't. You refuse to.

The thing about small towns is that there's no novelty. Everyone knows everyone. Before Vriska, you hadn't met anyone new for years. 

Of course, there is Vriska, who makes an exception to the rule. Which might explain why you're still fingering her phone number, rolling your thumb over the last three digits like you're tracing code. She was enigmatic. Honest, but enigmatic. The human brain, they say, craves novelty.

"We're here," you point out, pressing a knuckle against the window.

"Get your hands off the glass. You know how much I paid for that?"

* * *

GC: 4R3 TH1NGS G3TT1NG GOOD 4T TH3 CONV3N13NC3 STOR3 Y3T  
AG: Getting good? Why, they've always 8een gr8 here.  
AG: Didn't expect you this early. Are you 8ored of the college party yet?  
GC: 1TS PR3TTY MUCH JUST L1K3 1 3XP3CT3D 1T TO B3  
AG: And how's that?

* * *

 

Cronus throws terrible parties that people like anyways, because if you have liquor and music you can make just about anything into a social hub. The air smells of sweaty people and bad aftershave, the kind that turns uncomfortably saccharine after more than one spritz, and you expect that most of the boys here bathed in it before showing up. Dancing is impossible, everyone packed into a small frathouse with a living room hardly bigger than your bedroom. The punch is spiked with cheap vodka instead of the good stuff; it tastes like alcohol and regret. Damara vanishes within the first five minutes to go find her sophomore boyfriend, and Meenah sews herself in between the tightest concentrations of people to make herself known. Porrim sticks with you for a while, but gets bored quickly and sneaks off to find some pretty girl to occupy herself with. You don't resent her for it. Porrim's fault isn't so much intentional cruelty but general apathy; very little can hold her interest for long. Coincidentally, that's why most of her relationships have failed. You wouldn't say that to her face, though.

Cronus himself sidles up to you about half an hour after your arrival, wearing a white tank top that's stained with sweat and beer and plausibly other fluids that you don't care to imagine. 

"Hey," he says. It's an innocuous word. You don't understand how he makes it sound so  _uncomfortable._

"Hi."

"Did you come with Meenah?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, cool. Are you a friend of hers? I bet you are, 'course you are."

"I hate her," you deadpan. He snickers. It's an unpleasant noise.

"That's cool, that's cool. Your glasses are so sick, doll."

You touch them absently. They're wide, tear-shaped lenses with thick red frames. Meenah called them ostentatious. You didn't give a shit, really, because they  _do_ look sick, and they let you see.

"Thanks," you say. "I need them to see."

"That's dope. Do you want something to drink? Can I get you something to drink? I haven't seen you drinking."

"Yeah."

"Oh, great, great. I'll get you something. Be right back. Don't move an inch." He winks, although he can't do it properly, so it looks more like a belated, stupefied blink than anything lascivious. You're torn between shuddering or laughing at him.

Once he's out of sight, you make a beeline for the exit, cutting a path through the crowd with your own steadfast indifference to indecency. You push apart three intimately involved couples in your escape, but after a time, the crowd thins, and then parts for you naturally - the more decently mannered strangers hanging on the outskirts of the party, instead of the clustered, obscene middle.

 

GC: H3LL  
AG: I toooooooold you.  
GC: Y34H Y34H WH4T3V3R  
GC: GLO4T 1F YOU W4NT  
AG: I wouldn't dream of it.  
AG: What's going on?  
GC: OH 1TS NOTH1NG B4D  
GC: 1 GU3SS  
GC: JUST 4 BUNCH OF 4SSHOL3S G3TT1NG DRUNK 4ND PUTT1NG ON SOM3 PR3TTY L4M3 MOV3S  
AG: Has a college guy tried to hit on you yet? It's hilarious when they try to do that. Like watching a drunk monkey dry-hump a wall.  
GC: NO  
GC: 1 R3M41N WO3FULLY S1NGL3 4M1DST 4 S34 OF COUPL3S 1NCH1NG 3V3R CLOS3R TO PUBL1C OBSC3N1TY  
AG: You poor 8a8y.  
AG: Do you need a ride?  
GC: WH4T  
GC: NO  
GC: 4T L34ST NOT Y3T  
GC: 4ND 1 WOULDNT 4SK YOU TO COM3 G3T M3 L1K3 4N HOUR 4FT3R M33T1NG YOU  
AG: Why not? I'd do it. A girl's gotta help a girl out.  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW  
GC: 1 F1GUR3D YOU WOULDNT GO OUT ON 4 L1MB FOR M3 JUST L1K3 TH4T  
AG: It's hardly "going out on a lim8," Pyrope. Remington's hardly a mile away. Five minutes or less, on my 8ike.  
AG: I know you'd like a ride on it.  
GC: SUBTL3  
AG: Hey, I try to 8e!

 

The lawn is cool and finely layered in dew. There are a couple people sprawled out on the grass, but they seem mostly oblivious to everything that's happening around them, so you don't think they'll mind you joining them. You sit cross-legged and wait for your head to stop ringing.

You think you hear Meenah's voice drift out through the window, but whatever she's saying is unintelligible, and you stop bother trying to make out her remarks after it's drowned by the bass dropping. The house creaks under the strain of the speakers.    

 

GC: 1TS JUST BOR1NG MOSTLY  
GC: D4M4R4S OFF G3TT1NG L41D SOM3WH3R3 4ND M33N4H DO3SNT S33M TO NOT1C3 M3 B31NG GON3  
GC: 1 DONT H4V3 4NYTH1NG TO DO BUT 4VO1D H3R 3X 4ND COUNT H34LTH COD3 V1OL4T1ONS  
AG: What's the l8est tally?  
GC: TW3NTY THR33  
GC: 1F YOU DONT COUNT TH3 DRUGS  
AG: Do you?  
GC: N4H  
GC: TH3 S4D TH1NG 1S 1N OH1O TH1S 1S PROB4BLY TH3 MOST 3XC1T1NG TH1NG 4NY OF TH3S3 P3OPL3 W1LL 3V3R DO  
AG: Not all of us can waltz into a convenience store and make out with the first availa8le 8om8shell. Some of us must 8e content to live a dreary life!!!!!!!!  
GC: SOM3TH1NG T3LLS M3 YOUR L1F3 1SNT DR34RY  
GC: MOV1NG 4ROUND TH3 COUNTRY 4LL TH3 T1M3  
GC: SOUNDS L1K3 H34V3N  
AG: Hardly.  
AG: You ever try and make friends when you've got six months to stay?  
AG: No8ody wants to hang with the weird chick.  
GC: TH4TS PR3TTY OBV1OUSLY NOT TRU3 THOUGH  
GC: 1D G1V3 MY L3FT 4RM TO H4NG OUT W1TH SOM3ON3 WHO H4D L1V3D OUT OF ST4T3 B3FOR3  
GC: OR 3V3N B33N 4NYWH3R3 TH4T W4SNT OH1O  
AG: Would you?  
GC: OF COURS3  
GC: YOUR3 OK4Y FOR SOM3ON3 TH4T M4K3S 4 H4B1T OF H4NG1NG 4ROUND 1N CONV3N13NC3 STOR3S  
GC: >:]  
AG: That's adora8le.  
AG: ::::)  
AG: Are you sure I can't convince you to come 8ack? The slushy machine just isn't the same without you.  
GC: 1 WOULD  
GC: BUT 1 TH1NK M33N4H W4NTS M3 TO DR1V3 TH3M HOM3  
GC: 4ND 1F 1T W4S JUST H3R 1 WOULD TOT4LLY L34V3  
GC: BUT PORR1M 4ND D4M4R4 4R3NT TH4T B4D  
GC: SO 1D F33L 4 L1TTL3 GU1LTY JUST 4B4NDON1NG TH3M TO TH3 PR3D4TORY W1L3S OF SOM3 DRUNK FR4T BOYS  
AG: Suit yourself, Do-Gooder.

 

A heavy footstep falls on the doorstep, and then Cronus calls your name, twice, slurred. You crouch behind a garden ornament and try to make yourself small. After stumbling around for a few minutes, he goes back inside, and you move behind a clump of hedges to make yourself totally invisible.

 

GC: T3MPT1NG THOUGH  
AG: Is it that 8oring? I'd never guess Remington for a snooze fest.  
GC: 1TS TH3 WORST  
GC: CRONUS K33PS TRY1NG TO H1T ON M3 4ND 1V3 R3SORT3D TO H1D1NG B3H1ND 4 BUSH  
AG: Gag. College 8oys, right????????  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW  
GC: 1 TH1NK 1TS JUST CRONUS  
AG: Take it from me. You don't want to hang with those guys! They're the literal worst.  
AG: Yet another reason that you should've taken my 7-11 invite when you had the chance!  
GC: GLO4T SOM3 MOR3 WHY DONT YOU  
AG: I think I will. Priv8ly, and loudly, and with a lot of personal satisfaction.  
GC: UGH  
GC: 1 DONT 3V3N W4NT TO KNOW WH4TS 1N H1S GL4SS 4T TH1S PO1NT  
GC: PROB4BLY TH3 BLOOD OF TH3 UNBORN  
AG: Pro8a8ly. I'd tell you to kick him in the 8alls, 8ut he'd pro8a8ly get off on it.  
GC: H3H  
GC: PROB4BLY  
AG: 8TW, did you mean Meenah Peixes?  
GC: Y34H WHY  
AG: Oh, I used to know her.  
GC: SH1T R34LLY  
GC: WH3N  
AG: O8viously not that long ago, I've only 8een here for half a year. 8ut when I got here, I remem8er our first apartment was right next to her house.  
AG: I never talked to her, 8ut I knew her pretty well. And we share Precalc.  
GC: WH4T DO YOU TH1NK OF H3R  
GC: 1S SH3 4S B1TCHY 4S 1 TH1NK SH3 1S  
AG: Way more 8itchy! I couldn't 8elieve that someone like you hung out with someone like her.  
GC: WH4T DO YOU M34N "SOM3ON3 L1K3 M3"  
AG: Someone who isn't a total asshole, I guess. All of her friends are asshats, you know that, right?  
GC: Y34H 1 K1ND OF F1GUR3D  
GC: 1 M34N PORR1M 1SNT B4D 1F YOU G3T TO KNOW H3R  
AG: What's there to get to know? Her defining personality tr8 is 8eing "not as 8ad as the others."  
GC: TH4T 1SNT TRU3  
GC: SH3 H4S 4 LOT OF 1NT3R3STS  
GC: FOR 3X4MPL3 D1D YOU KNOW SH3S GOT 4 S1ST3R  
AG: Oh, wow, she has a family mem8er!!!!!!!! What an interesting person.  
AG: Jeez. I've had imaginary friends with more personality.  
GC: DO YOU NOT L1K3 H3R OR SOM3TH1NG  
AG: I don't *actively* dislike her! I'm just so sick of everyone rolling over and panting for people with little to no actual character. Like, who is she? Does she do ANYTHING 8esides stand there and look pretty?  
AG: Everyone's so fake, Terezi. That's why towns like this are shitty.

 

A scream pierces through the noise - a real one, laced with fear and fury. You spring to your feet and shove your phone in your pocket, turning to the entrance in time to see Meenah storm out. Her braids fraying and a lipstick smears along one cheek.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," she yells, whirling, jabbing a finger at someone inside who apparently is trying to pacify her. "No - no, don't you fucking say  _shit_ to me, you piece of fucking trash - he thinks he can get away with that shit? I'll call the fucking cops on this shit. I'll call the fucking cops, I swear to God."

"Meen," Cronus whines, stumbling from the door. "Don't - don't be like that -"

"No, fuck off, I'll cut off your fucking dick, just fucking try me. Back off. I said - I said  _back off_ -"

He retreats, arms pinwheeling, to get out of range of her sharp fingernails. "Okay, okay, girl, yeah, okay! Okay? I can take a hint. Look, here I am. Standing back."

Damara sidles through the doors, her arms folded, serene. "We're going," she informs you shortly, fiddling with one of her bracelets. Aside from the upturned curl of her collar behind her neck, you wouldn't have guessed she was with anybody; but then, she's gotten good at putting herself back together after quickies.

"Where's Porrim?" You're ignored; Meenah storms across the lawn and grabs your elbow, hauling you to her car.

"We're going. Porrim can - I don't care, she can get her quick fuck to drive her home, I don't give a shit. Get in the  _fucking_ car."

You scramble for the backseat, trying to keep your belongings together. Damara descends to her seat with divine grace. You suspect she's high.

Meenah flings herself into the driver's seat, slamming the accelerator before the door's fully shut. Cronus stands on his lawn and watches with a consternated scowl, like a child denied a treat.

"Asshole," she fumes. "What an _asshole._ My God. That motherfucker. That mother _fucker._ "

Damara reaches into her purse and offers Meenah a pack of Camels.

"What? No. Thanks, I guess. But no."

You don't ask her what Cronus did; you can piece it together yourself, and asking anything of Meenah seems to be playing with fire, as of late.

She glares at you in the rearview, as if your existence is a personal affront. "Where were you, huh?"

"I was with a guy outside," you say, which is only half a lie. 

"Who?" Her eyes glitter with interest.

"Don't know! Probably some friend of Cronus'. Didn't ask his name. Who needs their name, right?"

"You're so bad," she says, but laughingly, and you relax.

Damara murmurs something low.

"No, I don't need anything. Fuck off, Dam."

You contemplate texting Porrim, but ultimately decide against it. She'll find her way back. She has before. She was probably expecting it, even.

Instead, you snuggle closer into your seat and reach into your purse. Your finger catches the edge of Vriska's number and you rub at it absently. It grounds you. The two of them are chatting quietly in the front seat, but you disengage entirely from the conversation, and instead absorb yourself in the scenery as it flies past the windows - the windows fade the yellow light of the streetlamps to grey.

* * *

AG: What a8out you?  
GC: WH4T DO YOU M34N  
AG: You know my story! I want to know yours.  
GC: 1D H4RDLY S4Y 1 KNOW YOUR STORY  
GC: YOU TOLD M3 L1K3 THR33 TH1NGS 4BOUT YOU  
GC: 4ND TH3Y W3R3 PR3TTY B4S1C TH1NGS  
AG: You know what I mean!!!!!!!! Don't play coy.  
GC: 1M NOT PL4Y1NG COY 1M PL4Y1NG 4 P3RF3CTLY R34SON4BL3 STR4NG3R  
AG: ::::/  
GC: 4LL R1GHT  
GC: 1 GU3SS 1F YOU R34LLY W4NT TH3 TRUTH 4BOUT M3 TH3R3S NOT 4LL TH4T MUCH TO KNOW  
GC: 1 W4S BORN 1N SH3RWOOD 4ND 1V3 L1V3D TH3R3 MY 3NT1R3 L1F3  
GC: MY F4M1LYS PR3TTY W34LTHY FOR TH3 4R34 4LL TH1NGS CONS1D3R3D SO 1V3 N3V3R H4D TO WORRY 4BOUT STUFF L1K3 TH4T  
GC: 3XC3PT D34L1NG W1TH TH3 OTH3R P3OPL3 1N MY N31GHBORHOOD W4S 4 P41N 1N TH3 4SS BUT 1M NOT GO1NG TO PR3T3ND TH4T 1T W4S TH1S B1G FUCK1NG STRUGGL3 OR 4NYTH1NG B3C4US3 1V3 H4D 4 PR3TTY OK4Y L1F3  
GC: 1TS NOT P3RF3CT OR 4NYTH1NG BUT  
GC: 1TS PR3TTY GOOD  
AG: 8ut you don't like it?  
GC: 1S TH4T 4 QU3ST1ON OR L1K3  
AG: No, it's just something I picked up. You don't seem very happy.  
GC: W3LL TH3MS TH3 BR34KS 1 GU3SS  
GC: NOT 3V3RYON3 G3TS TO B3 H4PPY  
GC: 4NYW4Y 1TS NOT L1K3 1 H4V3 4 R34SON TO COMPL41N  
GC: MY B1GG3ST PROBL3M 1S B31NG FR13NDS W1TH 4 BUNCH OF 4SSHOL3S  
AG: That sounds like a pretty 8ig pro8lem to me.  
AG: Why do you stick with them?  
GC: B3C4US3 1M 4 COW4RD  
AG: I dou8t it. Cowards don't make out with strangers! Fact.  
GC: 1TS NOT BR4V3 TO K1SS P3OPL3 WHO 4R3 N1C3 TO YOU  
GC: OR 3V3N TO K1SS P3OPL3 WHO 4R3 M34N TO YOU  
GC: 1M 4 COW4RD B3C4US3 1 KNOW 1 SHOULDNT B3 FR13NDS W1TH TH3S3 P3OPL3 BUT 1 N3V3R G3T UP TH3 N3RV3 TO L34V3 TH3M 4LON3  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW WHY 31TH3R URGH  
GC: M4YB3 1TS B3C4US3 1 W4NT TO B3 POPUL4R OR L1K3D OR JUST 4VO1D TH3 P41N OF M4K1NG N3W FR13NDS  
GC: BUT 3V3RY T1M3 1 TH1NK 1M GO1NG TO D1TCH TH3M SOM3TH1NG COM3S UP TO R3M1ND M3 OF WHY 1M FR13NDS W1TH TH3M 1N TH3 F1RST PL4C3  
AG: So you're going to live out the rest of high school in fear of your 8est friends?  
AG: Sounds like a shit plan, to 8e honest.  
GC: 1 DONT KNOW  
GC: TH3YR3 NOT SO B4D 1F YOU DONT G3T 1N TH31R W4Y  
AG: And guns don't hurt you, either, if you're not in front of them!  
GC: TH3YR3 PR3TTY US3FUL FOR 3ND1NG 4N 4RGUM3NT THOUGH  
GC: >:]  
AG: Wh8ver. I think you're 8eing too hard on yourself.  
AG: Do you have any friends 8esides them?  
GC: D3P3NDS  
GC: TH3R3 W3R3 4 F3W P3OPL3 1N TH3 B3G1NN1NG OF TH3 Y34R WHO 1 WOULD H4NG OUT W1TH 4 LOT  
GC: N3P3T4  
GC: 4ND K4RK4T V4NT4S B3FOR3 H3 ST4RT3D D4T1NG H1S BOYFR13ND  
GC: BUT 1 DONT R34LLY T4LK TO TH3M 4NYMOR3  
GC: 3V3NTU4LLY 1 D1TCH3D TH3M SO MUCH TH4T TH3Y D1DNT BOTH3R 4SK1NG M3 TO JO1N TH3M ON OUT1NGS 4ND STUFF  
GC: 4ND 1 F1GUR3D 1T W4S FOR TH3 B3ST  
GC: 1 D1DNT W4NT TH3M TO 4LW4YS B3 W41T1NG UP FOR SOM3ON3 WHO W4SNT GO1NG TO G1V3 TH3M TH3 T1M3 OF D4Y  
AG: Yeah. Makes sense.  
GC: SO 4T TH1S PO1NT MY PL4N 1S JUST TO W41T FOR GR4DU4T1ON  
GC: G3T THROUGH 4NOTH3R COUPL3 OF MONTHS 4ND TH3N GO TO TH3 F4RTH3ST COLL3G3 TH4TLL 4CC3PT M3  
GC: R3PR3SS 4LL OF TH3S3 M3MOR13S 4ND ST4RT OV3R 1N SOM3 N3W WORLD W1TH N3W P3OPL3 4ND N3W TH1NGS  
GC: TH4TS TH3 DR34M  
AG: New things are overr8ed.  
GC: SO 1S F4M1L14R1TY  
AG: I guess.  
AG: I still think you should ditch them, though. Come hang out with some8ody who's not an asshole, for a change.  
AG: Or you could hang with me!  
GC: H3H3  
GC: M4YB3 SOM3D4Y


End file.
